truth

 The pure sincerity of revolution. The fire in the revolutionary's eyes. The steadfastness of his being. That is the essence of truth. 

In trying to express that through a framework, a need for others to understand betrays the purity of his truth. 

It falls to the level of mere propaganda. When one writes to define and prescribe to others. To become the symbol of a movement, he has already surrendered to the unserious masses.

The devotion to purity, the bone-chilling loneliness, nihilism. The desperation. All that is involved in a true exposition of truth. 

The writing is but a mere excretion - of the process of coming towards a higher understanding. In the vestibule of this evermore intense moment, all that is untrue about oneself is killed. Sacrificed. We take this journey everyday. Coming face to face with this animal we call ourselves.

Only when it is backed up into a corner, with nowhere to run can the mind really be conquered. Total absorption is what creates the invidual. Not dead words, prescriptions. 

Following the rugged contours scrapes against your very existence. It is like a fingernail grinding against a board. If you do not live seriously, you might as well not wake up tomorrow. 

Show me a man who devotes himself from morning to night to the improvement of his craft. Who watches every movement of his mind-body as he engages in it. The slight curve of his fingers, as they acquire an artistic elegance. The slight smile that cannot be taken away, Not the unserious snigger of one who lacks humility and surrender towards his art. 

I am nothing but a dead husk. Living only through what moves through me. Or rather, what I become available to allow moving through me. In becoming empty, I may become a conduit, for the pure expression of that which is sacred. That is art. 

The bourgeosie lifestyle dooms its inhabitants often to a life of mediocrity, for the oppurtunity cost of exploring the depth of their potential is far too great for the comfort they have become accustomed to. 

There is no mind in everything. Everywhere. The moment is not a mythical spiritual haven. It is right here. It is in fact, the only repreive from the constant suffering. Clarity in perception and expression. Remaining aware through a waterfall of perceptual stimuli. Through the soft touch of another's lips, Through a conversation which flows over and lends itself to a formulation in terms of a beautiful idea, to the grandeur of another's creativity. You are not impotent. It is the greatest insult to an artist to have a "fan"; One who superficially adores their work, or their persona never having engaged with the spark of personhood that produced the masterpiece.